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Just before we walk into Sweeney’s, Mona grabs my wrist and stops me. I practically fall off the baby blue stilettos she forced me to wear. No joke. These things are not made for walking.
“Okay, just follow my lead, all right?” she hisses through her teeth. “Whatever I say, just agree like you know what you are doing. Play along, and everything will be all right.”
I twist my shoulders in the T-shirt she let me wear, after some heated discussions about my taste in clothes. I get it: she does not approve. She doesn’t think a “lady” dresses in jeans and a T-shirt on a Friday night, or something like that. Friday nights are for trawling for men, apparently.
I knew that going in, and took care in selecting my outfit. Figuring that we could reach a compromise, I really did try for “sexy” in my own way.
In my mind, I figured that the Rolling Stones were still pretty sexy, but when I got to her house she disagreed. She practically ripped my jeans off me, and when I objected, she demanded that I make some immediate alterations. As in, with scissors.
What started out as a simple blue jeans and vintage T-shirt operation turned into tattered, torn pants that I think are showing most of my ass, and a T-shirt that got magically turned into a halter with my bra straps hanging out for the world to see.
I mean, it does still say Rolling Stones on it, but only because Mona is exceptionally crafty. She kept the logo and turned the rest of it into strings that she tied behind my back and over my shoulders.
I feel naked. Thank God for underwear.
“Mona, maybe this isn’t such a great idea,” I mutter back, wobbling on the heels.
I wish I still had my Chucks on. I would be so much more comfortable than I am in heels. And I could run away, which would have been a nice option.
“You’re already here, Libby,” she reminds me sternly. “You’re already doing it. Now, come on.”
I don’t have much choice but to follow her as she drags me by the wrist across the parking lot. If I try to get away, I am more than likely to sprain my ankle or something.
Besides, I tell myself, two hundred dollars. Two hundred dollars. Just remember that.
A man slides off his barstool next to the front door as we approach. I recognize his stringy hair and scarecrow frame from the video. He looks me over with no shame. I can practically feel his eyes sliding from my toes, through all the holes in my jeans, circling my navel, and inspecting my tits before he meets my eyes.
His tongue rolls around his mouth, pushing out his cheeks and lips like he’s got a mouthful of octopus tentacles or something. When he smiles, I notice he’s missing teeth here and there, just a few so that the remainder are slanted at weird angles, spaced out too much. Brown at the edges.
“What did you bring me, Mona?” he asks slyly. “Who is this angel?”
“You just keep your eyes to yourself, Ty,” Mona snaps, positioning herself between me and him so that he can’t get too close.
I stifle a shiver as he bites his lower lip suggestively. What is it with this kind of guy? Am I supposed to be impressed just because he exists? Just because he is gracing me with his attention?
“I think I will call you Angel,” he purrs.
“Why don’t you just call her Tammy, which is her name!” Mona barks.
She flicks out an ID from the front pocket of her ginormous purse, waving it under his eyeline briefly even though he isn’t paying attention. Then she slides it back into her purse and starts pulling me toward the door again. I hobble helplessly behind her.
“She’s going to be our beer girl tonight, Ty,” Mona announces.
“Wait, no, the hell she is,” Ty scoffs. “I don’t need a bar girl. I am not hiring.”
I glance down at Mona uncertainly, and that hesitation is just enough for Ty to get his bearings and mentally reload.
“Mona, no shit. I’m not hiring. I’m not paying her. If you want your friend here, she can sit at the bar and keep you company. That’s it.”
Mona pivots to face him, knuckling her hip angrily. The glitter in her hair shimmers ridiculously in the sodium lights, like she is a starlet in the wrong movie. She should have been in the show with all the Broadway and famous people. Instead we seem to be in a reality TV production about mismanaged dental care.
They face off silently. Her left eyebrow is raised so high she looks like a comic book character. I can tell she is ready to throw down, though, no matter what he says. We are doing this.
“Ty, I am this close to walking out of this place forever. Tammy is here to help me. You are going to pay her, you understand me? Or you are going to be doing the show tonight yourself, how about that!”
He rolls his eyes, sucking his teeth as he postures, pretending like he is actually involved in a negotiation. He thinks he’s got the upper hand, so he just stares at me again, not even concealing what he is thinking.
“Hey, I always have a job for a pretty lady,” he shrugs. “But I’m not letting her in the bar. Why don’t you leave her here with me? I’m sure I can find something… productive for her to be doing. I always have a use for girls like you.”
